Awkward in Pink
by Pushy-Wife-Of-The-Other-Son
Summary: Arial moves to a new town only to find the love of her life. She just doesn't know that yet.
1. Chapter 1

I cross my arms, a frown spreading over my mouth for the fifth-fifth? One, two, three, four...yeah, fifth- time this past half-hour. Glancing around the big, empty room, I kick the hideous beige wall beside me.

"Air," my mother calls into the room, "is that your choice?"

"Fine," I sigh in return.

"What?" she calls.

"I said fine!" I say in a louder, aggravated tone. Sickeningly bright sunshine pours into the room from the open window across from me. I hate sunshine. Alright, no I don't. Not usually, anyway. I just hate everything today. I hate moving vans, and moving men, and cardboard boxes that will make my sheets smell like avacados, and I especially hate beige, blank walls. Beige blank walls are dreadful.

"Great!" my mother calls perkily. "I'll take the other one!"

"Of course you will," I grumble as my mother shouts to the moving men where to bring my stuff. I sigh. Now my brand new bedroom will smell like sweaty men, I think, pressing myself against the wall as my bed frame is shoved into the room.

"Ooh, Arial!" Mom yells from the hallway. She peeked her head in as Chandler the Moving Man lazily dropped my box full of old yearbooks on the dusty carpet. "You must come look at the living room!"

"Must I?" I sigh, pushing past Chandler the Moving Man and following her out to the living room, which was also sickeningly sunshine-y.

"Isn't this love seat darling?" my mother coos, sitting on the pink and green love seat in front of the wide window. My mother isn't necesarily old. She recently turned thirty-eight, but she acts twenty. She's been this way since she and my father got a divorce a or so ago. It bugs me. She doesn't seem to understand that I want a mother, not another girlfriend.

"It's precious," I humor her. "We can put those little throw pillows Grandmother Doris made for us on it."

"We could!" Mom agrees happily, her entire face lighting up. "That'll look great, Arial!"

"Yep," I say, rolling my eyes. Mom doesn't notice. She's too busy instructing some moving men- Arnold and Daniel- on where to put the sofa. I look around the bare room. These walls are a green color. Ugly, but better than my beige bedroom. The entire house is ugly. I hate it.

"I'm going on a walk," I say, grabbing my jean jacket off the ground where I had previously thrown it.

"Have fun!" Mom chirps, beginning to unroll our big throw rug.

"Sure," I mutter, opening the front door. It slams shut behind me as I pull on my coat.

Needless to say, I'm very unhappy about our moving. Mom and I used to live in a tiny town in Michigan, where we'd lived forever. Of course, that was when Mom and Dad were still married and we all shared a nice house. Then the fighting, cheating, seperation, and finally divorce shoved my mother and me to Chicago to live closer to her sister. Dad has the nice two-story house by all my friends. Part of me wanted nothing more than to stay with dad, but I also knew Mom would end up doing something crazy by herself.

So I moved to Chicago from pretty Battle Creek.

I kick a pebble as I walk down the sidewalk, hands jammed into the pockets of my jacket. Some people ride past me on bikes or drive by in cars. I ignore them as much as I can. I'll have to deal with them tomorrow at school, so I practice ignoring them now. I've never been to a new school, and new kids rarely came to Battle Creek, but according to movies I've seen, new kids are instantly labeled as outcasts. I can only hope that isn't true for this school.

I circle the block and end up back in front of the house. The moving van is gone now, though there are still some boxes stacked up on the porch. I pick a few up and carry them in to find my mother in the kitchen, organizing cutlary drawers.

"Hey, Air," she greets as I enter. "How was your walk? Did you meet any new friends?"

"No," I answer stiffly.

"Well, you can make some tomorrow, then!" says Mom happily, shutting the now organized drawer.

"Great," I say. I sling my coat over my shoulder. "I'm gonna go start putting together my room."

"Okay! Call me when you're finished!"

"Mmm," I hum in response before exiting the kitchen and going to my bedroom, which still smelled like sweat. My bed is already put together (Thank you, Chandler the Moving Man, I mentally add as an apology to my silent snarkiness), so I open box after box to find my blankets. I bring one of the purple sheets up to my nose and sniff. Grapefruit. Well, at least it isn't avacado.

I put the sheets and blankets on my bed before collapsing upon it and falling asleep, still fully dressed.

* * *

"Morning!" Mom sang upon barging into my room without invitation. I moan.

"No."

She laughs. "Come on, Arial, it's time to wake up."

"No."

"Air!" She pulls the blankets off of me. "You don't wanna be late for your first day!"

"No, you don't want me to be late. I have no moral turmoil on the subject of tardiness."

Mom laughs again. "Come on, sweetie, I made you breakfast. Waffles and bacon."

"That does sound delightful..." With a heavy sigh, I heave myself from the bed. Half of me was expecting to see the tiny Michigan apartment we lived in while Aunt Wendy searched for an appropriate Chicago-ian house for us. I'm greeted by beige walls. Stupid beige walls. Stupid sunshine from still un-covered windows.

"Come on. Breakfast, then shower. I'll give you a ride on my way to your aunts."

"Thanks, Mom," I say, stretching my arms out. My shirt is wrinkled and, like my sheets, smells like grapefruit. "Tell Wendy I say hello?"

"Of course," Mom promises. "Hurry up. Your syrup is getting cold."

"Thank you, Mom," I say, following her out the door.

After a delicious, filling breakfast, hot shower, and eight minute car ride, I arrive at the school. Some kids park cars, some chain up bikes, and some- like me- wave goodbye to their parents. Everyone has a friend or boyfriend or girlfriend they instantly find and speak with. I walk awkwardly through the center of these groups, apologizing in a low voice as I do so.

The woman at the office gives me my schedule, books, and locker assignment. I thank her and find my locker, hastily shoving things in as my textbooks make dramatic dives to the tiled floor.

"Damn," I groan when the bell rings and students rush to their first period classes. My locker door finally manages to shut as I look at my schedule. Mrs. Ernest, room two-thirty-nine. Where the heck was room two-thirty-nine?

"Excuse me!" I say swiftly to a boy walking casually down the hall. It's as if he doesn't notice, or perhaps care, that he's late. He looks my way and tilts his dark, round sunglasses down his nose to look at me.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Hi," I begin, "I'm Arial Dawson. It's my first day."

"Arial Dawson," the boy repeats. "Lovely to meet you. Really, charmed. Duckie Dale." He holds out his hand, which I shake.

"Yeah, hi. Can you point me in the direction of Mrs. Ernest's room?"

"I can indeed." He takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. "Right about that'a'way," Duckie says, adjusting me just barely so I'm pointed slightly to the left.

"Right, thanks. Now could you give me directions?"

"I certainly could," says Duckie, "but are you sure you should be walking so much?"

"Excuse me?" I frown.

"I mean, it's only your first day with legs. I'd be a bit more careful if I was you."

I groan and Duckie looks quite pleased with himself. "Little Mermaid jokes? Really?"

"Oh yes," he replies. "And now that I know you dislike them, more will be coming your way, little Arial. I assure you." He takes my schedule from my hands and looks at it. "You go down this hall, turn right, and it'll be the last door on the left of that hallway."

"Thank you," I say, taking my schedule back.

"Tell Flounder I said hello!" he calls after me. I shake my head and keep walking.

* * *

"This food looks disgusting," I comment, my nose wrinkled up.

"It is disgusting," my new friend, Taylor, agrees. "Wait until you get a taste of it. You're gonna wish you didn't have taste-bubs."

"They're serving fish?" someone asks from behind me. "Mermaid, are you sure you're comfortable eating this? Was this one of your friends?"

"Hey, Duckie," I say, rolling my eyes. "Do you know Taylor?"

"Unfortunately," Taylor inserts. "Hi, Phil."

"Phil?" I repeat.

"Taylor here doesn't acknowledge my real name," Duckie explains.

"Or your existence," Taylor adds, causing me to laugh.

"You will respect your elder, missy!" says Duckie.

"Elder?" I say.

"Phil failed last year."

"I decided to kindly lend my presence to another year," Duckie says. "Everyone loves me so much here."

"Sure," Taylor scoffs.

"Denial," Duckie sings. "Now, I'm gonna go eat. You lovely ladies are completely welcome to join me if you'd like." He blows a kiss before turning and walking away.

"He totally just blew you a kiss," Taylor exclaims, mockingly excited.

"I can feel my heart pound in my chest," I joke in monotone as the lunch lady slaps a glob of mashed potatoes onto my tray.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey," Duckie greets as he sits down a little while down the table from where I sit with Taylor.

"Hi," I reply with a slight smile. Taylor offers up a small wave as well, which Duckie returns. Instantly, he pulls out his Geometry text book.

"Grody," I comment. "Why are you math-ing?"

"Because we have a test," he reminds me, a slightly pained expression on his face as he continues to pour over the book.

I frown. Based on what I've heard, Duckie never cared about doing well in the past. Teachers have made comments on his old work ethic before, and it sounds nothing like what I see.

"Right." I shake my head slightly and continue eating the greasy spaghetti (or at least I think it's spaghetti) the lunch lady served me. Another boy comes up and joins us.

"Hey," he says to Duckie, who smiles back briefly. He looks at me. "I'm Chris."

"Arial," I reply, smiling at him.

"Nice to meet you," he says, smiling back. He looks at Duckie. "Is Andie supposed to come home this weekend?"

Duckie's face falls noticeably, though it's still directed down at the textbook. "No," he says. "She can't make it."

"Who's Andie?" I ask.

"My best friend," Duckie answers, looking up at me. "She's in college now."

"And she was here with you last year?" I clarify. He nods.

"Yeah." He turned his eyes back down to the book. "I miss her."

"Aw." Taylor and I share somewhat of a sad glance.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I'm home," Duckie calls as he steps into his house. As per usual, there is no reply. There never is when he arrives home after school.

"Please, no pictures," he says sarcastically as he slings his bag down to the ground. Five steps later, he's in the kitchen. A step later, he's at the fridge.

With a heavy sigh, Duckie realizes there's no food in the fridge. Why is he so surprised? They never have any food. Just booze hidden around the house.

He shuts the fridge and turns for the living room where his bag still sat. The homework in it wouldn't finish itself. He sighs and drags his bag to his bedroom.

In the back of Duckie's mind, a litte voice tells him to call Andie. She could definitely help him with it. But she was, of course, in college. He knows he can't just ride his bike to the Walsh house and prance around her bedroom any more.

He frowns a little. He hasn't seen Andie in three weeks now. He misses her so much. But she was busy with Blane. Duckie frowns even more. That name still makes him mad. Who would ever name their kid Blane?

Duckie looks at the History book in his lap. The second he sees "Civil War" he's bored. He groans and covers his face with his hands.

He has to stay in school in order to get a good job. His mother barely makes enough money to support them as it is. Anything he can help with, he jumps on it. Even if it means trying in school to please his mom.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I roll over on Taylor's bed as I take a big bite of RedVine. "I just don't see how you're having so much trouble with this."

"Because science is a bitch," is my friend's reply. I laugh and strain my neck a bit to see her work.

"Freckles are a dominant trait," I inform her, taking another RedVine-y chomp.

"Ooofff course they are," Taylor sighs, flipping her pencil over to erase her answer. "Would that mean the kid has a hundred percent chance of being freckled?"

"No," I say. She groans. "See, the dad is heterozygous, so he has big-f little-f. The mom is recessive, so she has both little-f. So that means that in the right column, there's little-f little-f both times, so the kid has a fifty-fifty shot at freckles."

Taylor turns slowly to stare at me. I blink.

"Give it here." I hold out my hands.

"Yippie!" She slaps the textbook into my hands. "I owe you, Air."

"Yeah ya do," I grumble, though I honestly don't mind. I love science.

"So," Taylor says as I work, "I saw you talking to that tall, redhead guy earlier."

"David?" I ask.

"I don't know. I wasn't the one talking to him."

"Touche."

"Isn't he a richie?"

I look up at her. "A whatie?"

"A richie. Did you guys not have richies in the arctic?"

"Oh shush. My old home is a state away."

"Sure, sure."

"Anyway," I continue, "a richie?"

"Someone with a lot of money," Taylor clarifies. "His family is really rich."

"Ohhh. Now the name makes sense. But I don't know if David's a richie. I didn't ask."

"Why were you two talking, then?" she asks.

"Gosh, Mom, ease up. It's not like I'm pregnant. Yet."

Taylor laughs and I go on. "He just wanted to welcome me to the school, I guess."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because he said 'Welcome to our school.'"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that's kinda a giveaway..."

I laugh and tap my pencil. "What about that Chris guy?"

"Chris Craddick?" she asks.

"The one that sat with us at lunch."

"Oh, yeah, that's Chris Craddick. What about him?"

"He was cute." I shrug. "He got a girlfriend?"

"I don't know," she says, "I've never really talked to him. But you know what?"

"Hm?" I look at her.

"I know something that will solve all our problems."

"Do tell."

"Finish. My. Homework."


	3. Chapter 3

I tap my pencil against my desk as Mr. Barkley drones on and on about the hypotenuse of a triangle. I don't care. Like, at all.

About ten minutes after the first bell, Duckie stumbles into the classroom. Everyone turns to stare at him.

"Mr. Dale," Mr. Barkley greets him. "You're late."

"Yes, I am," Duckie agrees. "Thank you for noticing, sir." I hide a small snort of laughter behind my hand.

"Have a seat, Mr. Dale," Mr. Barkley says, gesturing to a seat beside me. Duckie moves over and sits at the desk. I smile at him and he nods back.

"As I was saying," Mr. Barkley continues. "At the tip of a triangle you..."

I stop listening again. Duckie seems to be paying very close attention, though his expression is pained and slightly confused. It's easy to tell he's lost.

A note lands on my desk. 'Tell me you understand this stuff.' I glance back at the sender to see David-the richie I had told Taylor about. I scribble back my reply.

'It'd be easier to shove a watermelon in my ear than understand any of this.'

He smiles slightly at my reply and writes back.

'Damn. I was hoping you could help me.'

'If I could, I would. But if I tried, we would both be worse off.'

'Bummer.'

I grin at him and crumple the note up in my fist. David has been friendly to me ever since we first started talking. And he keeps me company in History, which is nice.

"Hey." A wide kid nudges Duckie. "Nice shirt. Do you think you're mom will notice you took it?" Some of his friends chortle.

"Why would she?" Duckie asks. "It belongs to your girlfriend." I laugh aloud, covering my mouth with my hand quickly. But not before Mr. Barkley sends a glare in my direction. I smile politely back before tapping Duckie's foot with my own.

"Nice one," I congratulate.

"I know," he says coolly, as if proud of himself. I smile a bit.

"Yeah," the kid says, "good one. I'm surprised you could string that many words together in the first place."

"Mr. Ryngould." Mr. Barkley slams the chalk down on the ledge of the board. "Is there something you would like to share with the class?"

"Uh, no," Ryngould says back. "No, I'm fine."

"If you're sure..."

"Yes, sir."

"Then can I go back to teaching my class now?" Mr. Barkley questions.

"Yes, sir." He flushes slightly as one of his friends laughs at him.

"Nice job, Bruce."

"Shut up, dickwad," Bruce mumbles.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I flip through pages in The Old Man and the Sea. My mom keeps bugging me to read it. Honestly, I don't see what the hubbub about it is. Even the title bores me. Some old guy and an ocean. Woohoo?

I hear a book slam shut from behind a shelf. It's swiftly followed by the crumpling of paper and an exasperated groan. I ignore it.

I shove the book back onto the shelf. My fingers trail across the spines of books, not landing on anything specific. Finally, I grab a big book rumored to be scary. It's relativity new-called Pet Semetary. I flip through it for a moment before hearing another groan. The source of the noise grumbles under their breath.

A moment later, after there's another groan, I walk around the shelf. I see Duckie. He's seated at a chair, science textbook open in front of him on a table. Crumpled papers sit around his work.

"Duckie?" I say. He looks up.

"Oh, hey," he says. "How ya' doin'?"

"Peachy. And you?"

"Been better," he replies. "I'm so lost."

"What are you doing?" I ask, walking to the table. Notes about traits, reproduction, and Punnett squares are scattered.

"This," he answers, holding his arms out to gesture to his work. "I just don't get this."

"Heterozygous means you have two different genes," I tell him.

"Hm?" He looks up at me.

"Heterozygous. Hetero means different, so it'd have to be different. So where it says that Warren is heterozygous for brown hair, he would have both a dominant and a recessive trait, but the recessive trait won't show. So it'd be big-b little-b for him."

Duckie stares at me. "You're good at this stuff?"

"I'm great at this stuff," I correct him. Without taking his eyes off me, he kicks the chair beside him out.

"Please, mermaid. Join me."

"Well, if you insist." I sit and take one of his papers. "What do you need help with?" I ask as I scan his notes.

"Just about everything."

"That's my speciality," I say happily. He grins. "Well, let's start with these." I gesture to the Punnett squares on the paper. "What don't you get?"

"It would be easier if you asked what I did get. That would take us less time."

I laugh. "Okay, well, an easy way to remember the difference between heterozygous and homozygous is by thinking of sexuality. Homosexuality means liking someone of the same gender, and homozygous traits are the same."

"So..." He looks at the word problem. "Karen is a homo?"

"She's quite homo," I agree, glancing at the problem as well. "Or her hair color is, at least."

"Warren will be pissed," Duckie comments. I laugh.

"Just a bit, yeah." I pause. "I had a boyfriend named Warren once. I sneezed halfway through kissing him." I expect Duckie to make a sound of disgust, but instead, he bursts out laughing. "It wasn't funny!" I say, surprised at his reaction. "He never spoke to me again!" He only laughs harder. "Duckie!"

"No talking!" Mrs. Opper, the old librarian, barks at us. Duckie stifles his laughter behind his hand.

"It wasn't funny!" I protest, now in a whisper. "The entire school called me Arifail for, like, a year!" This little tidbit only makes Duckie laungh harder. "Duckie!"

"I-I'm sorry," he gasps. "I-I'm really sorry. J-just..." He shakes his head. "Arifail." He laughs again. I fold my arms over my chest.

"You done?" I he's finally finished laughing.

"Oh, come on, mermaid," says Duckie, "that was hilarious."

"No it wasn't!" I argue, only to have my hand smacked by a ruler.

"Whisper!" Mrs. Opper hisses at me.

"Yes, ma'am," I mumble, holding my ruler-ed hand. She stalks away and return my glare to Duckie.

"Look, mermaid," Duckie says, "if you can't laugh at yourself, it only hurts more when other people do."

I let his words buzz around in my head for a moment. They make a surprising amount of sense.

"Yeah," I say, "I guess you're right." Duckie grins.

"I usually am, Arifail."

"No."

"Okay, mermaid."

I roll my eyes, but I smile slightly.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Hey," I call upon entering my house.

"Hey honey!" Mom calls from the living room. "Guess what I bought!"

"A rocket?" I ask sarcastically as I open the fridge. My mother laughs.

"Close! No, I bought a new lamp for your bathroom!"

"That's cool," I say as I take a swig of Dr. Pepper.

"What happened during your day?" she asks, walking into the kitchen.

"Oh, nothing big." I shrug. "I got that new Stephen King book from the lib..." I blink as I look at her. "Are those my pants?"

"Don't they look great?" Mom asks, looking at her legs. "I was doing your laundry and found them. I was thinking about wearing them on my date tonight."

"You got a date tonight?" I ask stupidly.

"Yeah! His name is Cameron. He's got a little boy, about eight I think, and he's so cute! Cam's wife passed away when Mark was two years old. Tragedy, but hey all that means is-"

"Look, Mom," I say with a small sigh, "I would love to hear about Cam. Really. But I gotta go do my homework."

"Don't you usually do that in your free period?" Mom questions.

"I was gonna," I reply, "but I started helping this kid with some science."

"Hmm," Mom says.

"Yeah. I never got around to doing my own because Duckie also needed help with so-"

"His name is Duckie?" Mom repeats.

"Well," I say, slightly defensive now. I mean, she married a guy named Fischer. "It's just a nickname. His real name is Phil, but everyone cal-"

"That is so cute!" Mom exclaims. I blink.

"Um...you think it's cute?"

"I think it's precious!" she says. "What's he like?"

"Well, um," I say, slightly flustered, "he's pretty funny. Um, he-"

"What does he look like?" she continues.

"Um...well, he's got brown hair and, uh...he's pale-ish and his eyes are..." I squint a little, trying to think of Duckie's eyes. "His eyes are brown."

"Ohh, brown eyes," my mother coos. "I love brown eyes!" I stare at her blankly. "I gotta meet this boy!"

"Uh..." I turn slowly. "I'm gonna go do my Calculus..." I walk to my bedroom, ignoring her call of 'Aww Air!'

"I'm supposed to be the one freaking out about high school boys," I say as I enter my room.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Welcome to hell," Duckie greets as I sit in my Calculus class. I usually sit with the seat to my left empty, but he fills it today.

"I've got an all-expense pass," I reply.

"Did you, uh, finish last night's homework?" he asks.

"Uh...sorta." I pull the worksheet from my bag. "I did the first five or so before succumbing to doodles."

"Oh?" Duckie looks at my paper. "The turkey in the corner is awesome."

"That's Frodo Baggins," I say.

"You name your turkey doodles?" he asks.

"No, it's a character in the book...never mind. It's obvious I can't draw."

"Hey, this lamp looks good!" He gestures to a doodle by question thirteen.

"That's a tree."

Duckie pauses. "I hope you can write."

I laugh as Mr. Barkley enters the classroom.

"Ah," he says, "Mr. Dale. Nice of you to come in on time."

"My pleasure," Duckie replies. "I appreciate the crowd you gathered for my arrival." He spread his arms out to gesture to all of the class. I grin. Mr. Barkley rolls his eyes.

"So," he begins, "let's review your homework, shall we? Ms. Franklin, on number one did you..."

I begin to zone out and continue my doodles. After a few minutes, Duckie leans over to my desk and begins to add on. The small sun in the upper right corner now, thanks to him, has clouds around it. I add an umbrella floating across the sky. He adds a stick figure attached to it.

We continue this until Mr. Barkley calls on me. I look up from what is now a dragon attacking a small village.

"Yessir?" I ask.

"What did you get on number sixteen?" he asks.

"Uh..." I look at my paper. Sixteen had a pineapple beside it. "I got, um..." I look up. "Four."

The class sits in silence for a moment.

"Four?" Mr. Barkley repeats.

"Yes." I nod.

"Would you like to tell the class how you got that answer?" he continues.

"No."

"No?"

"No." I shake my head. "No, sir, that doesn't sound like something I would enjoy at all." Duckie snickers slightly as the class turns to stare at me. My cheeks redden.

Mr. Barkley and I stare blankly at each other, neither breaking our gaze.

"Do it anyway," he finally says.

"I don't think it would be very beneficial to the class, Mr. Barkley," I reply.

"Are you trying to tell me you didn't do it, Ms. Dawson?"

"Yes. I am."

Mr. Barkley heaves a deep sigh and calls on David. I look at Duckie after a moment to see him smiling a bit.

"Nice one, Arifail," he comments. "Sorry," he adds at seeing my expression, "I'll use your real name. Mermaid."


End file.
